


Professional Bounds

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Dom/sub Undertones, Getting Together, M/M, Model Derek Hale, Model Erica Reyes, Model Stiles Stilinski, Neckz 'n' Throats, No Sex, Photo Shoots, Photographer Peter Hale, Rope Bondage, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: In the end, his curiosity to see where this goes, where Peter takes him with rope and hands and camera, wins out. “Okay,” he whispers.
Relationships: Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, background Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 180
Kudos: 1306





	Professional Bounds

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be a contribution for Steter week, but this fic ended up about 3x as long as intended and wasn't done in time. Instead, we're ringing in the new year and starting the new decade right--with Steter! For an extra-immersive experience, click the embedded link to the thunderstorm ambient noise app and have a listen while reading. 
> 
> Big thanks to Bunnywest & DenaCeleste for pre-reading and cheerleading help! 
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR, LOVELIES!

Erica calls in at the last minute. Family emergency. To be fair, it sounds like there _is_ an actual emergency since she’s calling from what is unmistakably an airport, but it still leaves Peter in the lurch for the spread they’re supposed to be shooting today.

And it’s not like he can simply reschedule. They’re out of time, for one thing—today’s the last possible shooting day for the summer issue. And getting Derek to agree to the BDSM-themed shoot the readership has been begging for since his first appearance in _Neckz ‘n Throats_ was a goddamn ordeal. Braeden had to point out that he was contractually obligated, since he’d agreed to these kinds of shoots when he signed on. She’d told him that unless he wanted to renegotiate his contract—with everything that entailed, including the option of being let go from the studio—he’d do the damn shoot.

Derek had folded, but not gracefully—as much as he needs this job, he still hates being associated with kink. So he asked to do the shoot with Erica, because he knows her, knows she might put him on his knees, but won’t degrade or demean him while he’s there. Braeden emailed Erica, who agreed. Derek had also requested that Peter be behind the camera, even though he mainly works in the visual editing and layout department these days.

It took the promise of a bonus before Peter acquiesced, because working with his nephew is a pain in the ass on a good day, but he knows as well as Braeden does that it’ll be good for business.

And, even with those concessions, Derek kept pushing the shooting date out until Peter decided to cut straight to the chase and call his sister. Not to tattle, of course, he’s well aware of Talia’s opinion on Derek’s choice of revenue stream, but to get an unadulterated copy of the pup’s class and exam schedule. Once they had that, Braeden and Peter set the date, and told Derek to either show up, or be fined. All in all, it’s been an absolute nightmare getting to today, and if Peter hadn’t seen his nephew in the lounge, he might’ve suspected the stubborn idiot pulled a runner.

If Derek senses escape now, they’ll never get this chance again. Before he finishes swearing, his phone beeps with a text. It’s from Erica.

_Call Stiles in to replace me._

And, well. It’s nice of her to try and salvage the shoot like this, but she should know better than to think that Derek would ever agree to shoot a scene he’s so uncomfortable with when his partner is a total str—

_Flip ‘em. Stiles kneeling for Der will trigger reprints._

And, oh. Clever little thing. She’s already thought of that. He replies with a simple, _Thanks_ , and then pulls up the archives on the company computer. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Erica’s judgement so much as that he trusts his own more. And he’s not going to allow some pesky emergency to compromise the quality of this publication.

But, when he pulls up the shoots this “Stiles” has done with them—mostly as a background body, but he’s also done a couple sets with Erica—he has to admit she’s onto something. The boy is beautifully expressive, and clearly able to take direction well, given that he goes from playful to sultry to vulnerable in the shots.

The shot of him dragging Erica’s panties down with his teeth while he looks up at her is especially nice. The boy’s throat is parallel with her belly and thigh, the side-shot capturing the way the stage lights catch his irises, lighting them up and highlighting the delicacy of the stretched lace. Peter checks, and sure enough, it’s Boyd’s work.

If Stiles is good enough to work with Erica and Boyd—who are personally about as easy-going as werewolves can get, but have exacting professional standards—then he might be exactly the man to prevent this train wreck.

Convinced, he picks up the phone and makes the call.

***

Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about this. He’s only ever modelled for Boyd, who’s not shooting today’s job. He appreciates that Erica’s trying to throw extra work his way, since college is expensive and Roscoe’s in perpetual need of repairs, but this—this is out of his comfort zone.

Still, he trusts her, so he tries to calm his nerves as he chatters with the makeup artist, a cute kitsune named Kira whose personality is made of sunshine, rainbows, and murder. He adores her.

Just as she’s finished making him pretty, a big dude in leather pants with an impressive scowl comes up. “You Stiles?”

He considers lying, but from the sheer bulk of this guy, dude’s a werewolf, and would know. “Yes?”

Dude grunts. “I’m your scene partner. If you’re done here, follow me.” 

He turns to look at Kira, who gives him a thumbs-up and reassuring smile, so he nods and follows Tall, Dark and Grumpy into the maze of hallways. As he does, he’s able to appreciate the shape of this guy—the broad shoulders taper to a trim waist and a surprisingly bubbly butt.

He can feel his dick twitch in interest, and then, suddenly, the guy wheels on him. “Put that away,” he snarls, and Stiles is confused.

“I don’t have anything out?”

The guy’s top lip peels away from his teeth—which are lengthening. “Don’t play stupid. I can smell the lust coming out of your pores.”

Which, okay, that’s not the first impression he wanted to make, but—“I didn’t mean to make you—”

“It’s disgusting.” And that, that knocks all the air out Stiles’s lungs. “I don’t appreciate being objectified by my so-called coworkers, so if you can’t be professional, get the fuck out.”

And then the guy storms off, and Stiles doesn’t follow. He’s too busy trying not to yell or cry or throw up or something equally stupid and dramatic.

He thought this would be like his shoots with Erica, where accidentally popping a boner was no big deal. Even Boyd—who’s not only the photographer, but also _Erica’s boyfriend_ —would just tell him he has good taste and how to position himself for the next shot. He never felt self-conscious in front of the camera when Boyd was behind it.

But apparently it is a big deal to this guy, so he’ll—he’ll deal with it. He takes a few deep breaths, and heads in the direction he saw his scene partner go.

***

Peter knows his nephew, knows that Derek’s pissy about the shoot and off-kilter from the last-minute change in scene partner and role, but wonders what in the hell happened to send him stomping back into the studio gnashing his fangs and reeking of fury. And conspicuously absent the scene-partner he was supposed to fetch.

As much as he doesn’t want to ask, there’s no point in wasting everyone’s time shooting something completely unusable, so, “Something the matter, nephew?”

Derek huffs. “Kid’s a creep, and unprofessional to boot.”

Peter’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “Really?” Somehow, he doubts it—Erica wouldn’t tolerate that for a second. Which means darling Derek has his nose out of joint about something else.

Before his nephew can do more than frown, the kid comes in. He’s gorgeous in a white button-up and black skinny jeans, both of which emphasize his long, lean frame and creamy skin.

Only problem is, he reeks of frustrated resignation.

The boy—young man, really—comes up to Peter to shake his hand. “Hey, man. I’m Stiles.”

He grips the slightly-chilled hand carefully. “Peter Hale. We spoke on the phone. I’ll be doing the shoot today.”

Dark chocolate eyes flick over Peter’s shoulder. “Assuming it’s still on, of course.”

He frowns, starting to understand what—or rather, who—the problem is. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“Great.” Stiles gives him a tight smile. “How do you want us to start, then?”

He wants to start with a few simple shots of them standing to get a feel for how they work together—Derek with an arm around the human, Stiles resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder. Nothing particularly involved or remotely risqué, and they just. Completely fuck it up.

Derek looks angry—and not the kind they can sell as “bad boy” attractive. Stiles is stiff and awkward, reluctant to get close, and Peter doesn’t blame him. Most mammals would be leery of cuddling up with a pissed-off predator. He puts down his camera and rubs a hand over his face. “Alright, let’s try something else. You two stand facing each other, with Stiles’s back to me. Stiles, you look over your shoulder at me, and act like you’ve got a juicy secret you’d love to tell me. Derek, I want you also looking at the camera, smug, like you know what the secret is, and plant your hands on his butt.”

At this point, he’s hoping their awkwardness is just sexual tension. Because if it is, he can work with that, build the shoot around it.

As soon as they get into position, it’s immediately obvious that that’s not the problem.

“Come on, you two, stop leaving room for Jesus. Derek, I said his ass, not his hips.”

Derek grits his teeth, but obeys. Stiles gets into position, his expression absolutely perfect, and Peter raises his camera to—

“Get a hold of yourself!” Derek snarls, shoving Stiles away from him.

He pushes so hard that Peter has to catch the kid so Stiles doesn't hit the ground. He doesn't understand what—

“Get _over_ yourself!” Stiles snaps, getting back to his feet and getting right up in Derek's face, and Peter can't decide if that's attractive or monumentally stupid. “Your hands were _on my ass_!”

“That doesn't give you the right to—” 

Peter cuts in before it comes to blows. And, judging by the scent of Stiles, it absolutely would have. Fearless little goblin. “What's the problem, Derek?”

His nephew doesn't stop glaring at his fellow model. “I told you,” he spits, “this little twerp is an unprofessional creep.”

He opens his mouth to demand clarification, but Stiles beats him to it. “Dude, I don't know what fucking world you live in, but on my other _porn shoots_ , tenting my jeans wasn't taken as a mortal offense. And _yes_ ,” Stiles hisses, low and ugly, “my other shoots were with werewolves.”

Sweet buttery Christ. Only his fucking nephew would try to twist a new scene partner’s unacted-upon physical attraction into an offense. “Alright, I've heard enough. Derek, get out.”

“What?” The scowl is gone, replaced by the wide eyes and hanging jaw of the eight-year-old pup he used to be. “Why are you throwing _me_ out?” 

He's not getting paid enough for this. “Because you're fired. Now get out of my studio, some of us still have work to do.”

Derek crosses his arms and sets his jaw, no doubt thinking about the fine Braeden is absolutely going to slap him with. “I don't see why I have to leave when he's the problem.”

Right. That's enough of that. “Derek, if you don't leave right now without another word, I will personally help Stiles file a harassment complaint.” 

At that, Derek goes white, and storms out—muttering, of course, but he leaves. Given that Laura runs the HR department, it's definitely the wise choice. He doesn’t need both her and Braeden pissed at him.

And now for his least favourite part of working with family: damage control. He turns back to Stiles. “Are you still willing to do the shoot?”

***

Stiles wants to say yes, because money, but after _that_ , he’s a little gun-shy. “Depends,” he hedges, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What’d you have in mind?”

Peter hums, staring at him in a weird way he’s quickly become familiar with, being around photographers. Usually it means they’re seeing him in their mind’s eye, working through an idea. It still gives him the urge to fidget, though.

A long moment later, Peter finally replies. “You knew this was slated as a BDSM-themed shoot, correct?”

“Yeah?” He silently thanks Erica for texting him the info, and wonders where dude’s going with this.

Peter sighs. “It was, initially, meant to be a partnered shoot, where the both of you would play off each other and figure out what felt right. But since my nephew successfully found a way out of the contractual obligation he’s been pissing and moaning about for three months by being an absolute dick, and today is the last day to shoot this, I don’t know if we can find another replacement on such short notice. So,” those intense blue eyes focus on him, and he feels heat rush to his face, “how do you feel about doing a bondage shoot with just me?”

“Uh. How would that—you’re the photographer?” He has to double-check, because he’s not sure of anything anymore.

Peter smirks. “I’m also a very experienced rigger, and there’s an entire crate of props that got brought down here for this shoot—it’s full of toys and gear, and there’s some red rope in there that would look absolutely gorgeous against your skin.”

Stiles ignores the way his mouth is going dry at the thought, because he has to be a grown-up about this. “So, what? You’d tie me up, and then take photos?”

Peter tilts his head. “More or less. I’d likely want to take some process shots, too. It would depend. I’d like to set up a second camera to record the session, see if it catches anything good that I might miss because I’ve got my hands full.”

It all sounds okay, seems like it’s above-board, but he’s not completely sold. Still, he’s already here, so, “Okay.”

Peter nods at his outfit. “I know you specified in your contract that you weren’t comfortable with full-frontal nudity, but how much clothing are you comfortable losing, here?”

Being asked makes the tension in his chest loosen. “I mean. Most of it for sure, but can we work up to that?”

Peter dips his chin. “Of course. For a start, I’d probably have you remove either your shirt or your jeans, whichever you’d prefer, and we’d go from there. I do understand that—for all this isn’t precisely a porn shoot,” Stiles fights down a blush as Peter’s eyes crinkle with his grin, “it is fairly intimate, in that you’ll have my hands all over you.”

“Right. I mean, I’ve been up close and personal with some of the others, so I think I’m good with that part, but like,” he flaps a hand, trying to search for the right words, “what should I be aiming for, here?”

Peter hums and—slowly—reaches out and traces a finger along Stiles’s jaw. “Vulnerable.”

It’s absolutely not what he’s expecting. “Really? Why?”

He gets a half-smile before Peter starts rummaging around in the prop crate. “Because this might be a themed shoot, but even those are still open to interpretation. And,” he stands up, and there’s a thick coil of fire engine red rope in his hands, “I believe we’re talented enough to pull it off.”

That sounds like flattery, and Stiles is kind of flattered, but he still doesn’t understand what the guy means by that. “I mean. Isn’t every shoot showing that, though?”

“Not necessarily. Lots of models put on and take off different personas for different shoots or scene partners. True vulnerability can’t be faked—it has to be brought to the surface with honesty and trust, and that makes it delicate.”

And _that_ , he can understand. “Okay, so—how do you want to do this, then?”

Peter smiles again, with teeth and eye crinkles and Stiles is absolutely gut-punched by the sheer attractiveness in front of him. Werewolves are so unfair. “For now? Go get a cup of coffee, use the bathroom, call a friend. I need a few minutes to set up the recording camera and rearrange the set. If we’re communicating vulnerability, we want as few props and set pieces as possible.”

So Stiles nods, and heads towards the employee lounge. There’s coffee there, and, if he’s lucky, Kira.

***

Peter doesn’t wait for the door to close behind his model to begin arranging the set to his liking—he has a vision, and no time to waste. It’s not long before he’s thrown the third-storey curtains wide to let natural light in, hauled away the bondage furniture and dark draperies. He’s even rolled up the backdrops and thick rugs. All that’s left are the white bricks and wooden floors of the studio, a pale gold couch, the bed in the corner, and an armless wooden chair with red velvet cushioning.

All of it simple, but not minimalist. There’s visual detail in the chair’s scrollwork carvings, the champagne-and-ivory stripes of the bedspread, the seashell pattern of the couch, the texture of the painted bricks. The neutral background colours will draw attention to Stiles—to his dark eyes and hair, his creamy skin, the moles sprinkled liberally across his face and torso. The red of the ropes Peter will bind him with.

Despite his initial reluctance to be behind the camera again, Peter’s genuinely looking forward to this shoot now, to being able to capture something rare and delicate on film. The fact that there’s a camera on a tripod set to video capture it all, that he’ll be able to watch it again in full during the editing process, contributes.

He’s pleased to note that the boy seems settled when he comes back, and the long-lashed doe eyes blink before taking in the scene, approval turning his scent warm and bready. “I like this—can see what we’re going for, here.” Stiles gestures broadly. “Do you mind if I make an addition?”

Peter tilts his head, wondering what Stiles might want to add. “What did you have in mind?”

Stiles pulls out his phone, and unlocks it. “So, I thought about what you said, about how vulnerability requires trust, and I have a hard time relaxing, given my ADHD.” Peter nods, following so far, and Stiles swipes at his screen a couple times before turning it so Peter can see. “But I thought, maybe an ambient noise app, something to listen to while we do this, might help. If nothing else, it gives me something extra to help me focus.”

Peter nods. “I’m fine with that, so long as it’s not blasting.”

“Yeah, I know werewolf ears are sensitive. How’s this?”

The sound of a [thunderstorm](https://weather.ambient-mixer.com/the-perfect-storm%20) plays at a reasonable volume, and it’s—it’s clear to Peter’s ears that it’s a set of recordings being manipulated, because no real storm sounds that balanced, but it’s not terrible. It’s not some horrendous pop earworm by the starlet of the day, or so obtrusive he’ll need earplugs, so it’s already leaps and bounds ahead of what some of the other models have played during shoots. He nods. “If that’ll help you, I’m fine with it.”

“Thanks.”

He’s not sure why he’s being thanked, exactly, so he moves on. “Alright then. You ready to get started?”

“Yeah. Where do you want me?”

Peter chuckles. “Well, first, you’re going to want to stretch. Releasing as much tension from your muscles as you can before a rope session means less cramping and stiffness.”

This ridiculous, beautiful boy snorts and waggles his eyebrows, but starts bending and twisting. He stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders, then bites his bottom lip, smelling indecisive for a long moment before muttering, “fuck it,” and peeling out of his skinny jeans.

Peter hums in appreciation at the ink-black boxer briefs he’s wearing underneath. “Nice,” he murmurs, and Stiles’s head snaps up, confusion crinkling his eyebrows. Peter points between the briefs and his shirt. “The contrast—the costume department did an excellent job with this. Keeping you in monochrome.”

Stiles’s face clears as he nods. “Yeah, well. The jeans and underwear are mine, so I’m glad you approve.” He bends over and touches his toes before shaking out his limbs. “Okay, now what?”

Peter crosses the space between them, and unbuttons his left cuff, rolling it up until it settles just below the crook of Stiles’s elbow. Once he’s done that, Stiles holds out his other arm so Peter can repeat the process. It’s a good look for him, but still a little too polished. “You mind?” Peter asks, his fingers hovering over the shirtfront buttons.

Stiles swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “No, just—”

“Just a few,” Peter murmurs. He gets it. Once that’s done, he takes a step back and gestures at the pseudo-antique wooden chair. “Have a seat for me.”

Stiles gives him a funny look, but obeys. Once he has, Peter takes an arm, and begins lightly massaging the muscles. “You ever broken any bones? Have any old injuries I need to be careful of?”

Understanding breaks across that expressive face like the sun peeking through the clouds. “I mean, I broke my ankle trying to skateboard when I was twelve, and got my fair share of bruises and strains from cross-country and lacrosse in high school, but not really? Nothing that should get in the way here.”

A runner. Explains the build—and the calf muscles. “Alright. If something does start to hurt, I want you to tell me. A little discomfort, especially in your first session, is fairly normal, but not pain.”

He goes to switch arms, but Stiles’s fingers curl around his wrist instead. “Thank you.”

“It’s part of being a responsible Top.” He shrugs, unused to clothed, non-sexual gratitude. He gives his attention to the body in front of him instead, carefully mapping out first the arms—leanly muscled and holding much more tension than Stiles thought they were, judging by his appreciative little moans as Peter coaxes the soft tissue into releasing—before moving up to his model’s shoulders.

Shoulders that are broad, but pliable, giving under his hands as he tries to dig out a semester’s worth of note-taking and essays with his thumbs. After, he smooths his hands up and down the planes of Stiles’s back, and relishes in the almost-sleepy look and scent of him.

Peter has to resist the urge to comb his fingers through the boy’s thick, dark hair. “You ready to get started?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, and the way he’s gone soft and sweet has a convoluted mash of emotions unfurling in Peter’s gut.

Instead of lingering on it, he turns on the recording camera, then picks up and starts uncoiling the rope, inspecting it for fraying or damage. “Stiles? Can you sit forward on that chair for me, and rest your arms on top of your head?”

The doe-eyed model frowns a moment before shuffling forward on the chair. He brings his arms up, and rests one forearm on the top of his head, and his other hand grips his opposite wrist. “Like this?”

“That’s perfect, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and he can’t help it. He praises his rope bunnies when they follow his orders, and he can’t shut that off even though this is his _workplace_ and he should probably do just that. “I need access to your chest to tie the first harness.”

Stiles blinks up at him. “’Kay. Just tell me when you need me to move.”

Peter smiles, and sends thanks into the universe that the recording cam is visual only, no audio. He tries to stay impersonal as he makes a [lark’s head](https://www.theduchy.com/larks-head-knot/) and winds the rope into a [simple harness](https://www.theduchy.com/shinju/) he’s tied a hundred times, but it’s hard. When he slides his fingers under the lines to ensure it’s not too tight, he wants to encounter skin, not the cotton of Stiles’s shirt. He has to resist the temptation to let his hands linger, reminding himself that this is for work, however much he may be enjoying it.

This isn’t about him. It isn’t, unfortunately, even about Stiles. It’s about the magazine. His heart feels strangely heavy about that fact as he positions the boy and picks up his camera.

***

Stiles has never been in rope before today, and he wonders why. Why he never experimented, why he never considered this. He was definitely cheating himself.

Everything takes on a soft, dreamlike quality as Peter ties him up for the first time. The rasp of the rope against his shirt makes goosebumps break out across his skin, and Peter’s sure hands and murmured instructions—followed by, “thank you,” or “good boy” or “yes, just like that”—make him want to melt and possibly beg. For what, he doesn’t know, so he keeps his mouth shut.

It’s easy to do as he’s told when it’s time for the photos, and he poses with and in the chair for what feels like mere minutes before Peter has him sitting back down to take the ropes off. Stiles would be upset about that, except he has Peter’s hands on him again—untying rope and smoothing over his shoulders and arms and neck, as Peter tells him to take deep breaths and stretch before they move on.

Stiles isn’t sure what they’re moving on to, but he kinda hopes it’s somewhere else he can sit. Lie down, maybe.

“You doing alright, sweetheart?”

The question and pet name have his face melting into a gooey smile. “Yeah,” Stiles murmurs. “I’m doing great.”

Gentle fingertips catch his chin and tilt his head to meet Peter’s eyes. “You’d be good, and tell me if you weren’t, right?”

Stiles lets his eyelids drift closed, enjoying the simple touch. “I would. Promise.”

Peter’s hand cups his jaw for a moment, and he can’t help but nuzzle into it. “Thank you.” Peter takes his hand away, and Stiles fights not to whine or pout about it. “You ready to move on?”

He nods, and lets Peter finish unbuttoning his shirt, adjusting it so his front is exposed. Desire makes his breath quicken when Peter runs a palm down his belly, fingertips dragging across Stiles’s happy trail. He can’t help his breathy moan when Peter’s hands slide up the back of his shirt, pressing against the long muscles on either side of his spine.

“Any stiffness, or aches?”

 _Not unless my dick counts_ , Stiles thinks, amused. He’s not hard, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time at this rate. His whole body feels sensitized and the good kind of twitchy. As it is, he’s a little surprised his dick hasn’t joined the party yet. “’M good, Peter.”

He must sound impatient, because Peter huffs. “I’m not going to apologize for checking in with you. Now, be good and put your arms up for me again.”

Stiles stands still, arms crossed on the top of his head, as Peter ties him into a second harness, and it’s even headier than the first time. This time, he feels the rope dragging across his bare skin in the window of his open shirt front, Peter’s hands on his ribs and chest, how close the werewolf leans in when passing the rope around his back.

He’s a strange mix of professional and intimate, Stiles realizes. Because while Peter isn’t touching him in ways that aren’t necessary for tying the harness—he assumes, as there hasn’t been one that felt superfluous or creepy or unwanted—those blue eyes are soft with something, and Peter’s tone is sweet and gentle. As the final knot is tied in the second harness, _want_ hits Stiles harder than any punch he’s ever taken, and his cheeks burn as he tents his underwear helplessly.

His hands are bound behind him, so he can’t even adjust himself to make it less obvious.

Stiles has a split second to worry that Peter will react badly, and then Peter’s eyes flash blue before disappearing behind his camera, clicking rapidly. Stiles can’t help but look down and away, a little disturbed by the fact that he’s had zero encouragement, but still desperately wants to touch himself (or beg Peter to touch him), even though this is work and he usually doesn’t feel that compulsion.

“Beautiful,” Peter breathes, and it eases something, helps Stiles let go of some of the tension he was holding. He still craves touch like air, but the reverence in Peter’s voice dulls the need a little. Takes it from a cutting sort of desperation to something like a hunger pang.

But something of what he’s feeling must still shine through his face, even as he’s posing by the window, because Peter’s camera lowers. “You still alright?”

Stiles swallows. “Y-yeah.”

Peter’s head turns a fraction to the side as his eyebrows pull together, and Stiles remembers that werewolves can hear lies. “You want to try that again?”

But, well. He doesn’t have a name for this. “I’m not, I don’t—”

And then Peter’s right there, one hand on the back of his neck and the other resting lightly on his waist. “Are you uncomfortable or scared?”

“No.” He knows that much, and some of the tightness around Peter’s eyes eases at his answer.

“Okay, good. Are you experiencing distress?”

And, well. “Maybe?”

Peter’s gaze and tone sharpen. “Do you need the shoot to stop?”

“No, I’m good to keep going.” He is, too, it’s just—

“Is there something you need?”

And there is, he realizes, but it makes his cheeks flush and the tips of his ears burn. “Um.”

Peter just chuckles, the hand he had at the back of Stiles’s neck drifting down to mirror the other one at Stiles’s waist. “Sweetheart, I’m basically your scene partner for the day, and you’ve let me strip you down and tie you up. You’re allowed to ask for what you need from me.”

And, well, yeah, okay. When he puts it like _that_ —“Just. Touch me?”

Peter’s quiet for a moment, staring at him intensely. “You need more contact.” It’s not a question, but Stiles answers anyway.

“It’s just—easier, when you’re close.” He says it, and immediately feels childish and unprofessional.

But Peter just says, “Alright,” and leads him to the couch before carefully unwinding the rope. His tone and murmured instructions stay patient and gentle, and Stiles wants to roll around in the attention and never leave. It’s more embarrassing than being obviously half-hard inside his boxer-briefs.

But Peter doesn’t mention that, either, just runs his hands over Stiles’s skin, petting and stroking and massaging away any stiffness or soreness before it can evolve into pain or cramping. Stiles relaxes—it feels good, and he’d swear that there’s something between them, something that goes beyond the intimacy of a shoot where most of his clothes come off, but he doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up in case he’s wrong.

After all, he’s not the one with super-senses that can detect emotions, here.

Once all the rope is off and Peter’s reduced him to a puddle again, Peter says, “Stiles? I have an idea, and you’re free to say no, of course, but.”

“What is it?” Stiles is more than willing to hear the guy out, given the way he’s been treated so far.

And then Peter looks at him with those summer-sky eyes, and says, “I’d like to tie you into a hip harness.” He pauses, and then, “Nude.”

The air goes out of Stiles’s lungs. He doesn’t know what to say. So far, everyone at the magazine has been good about his refusal to do full frontal nudity, hasn’t even brought up being completely bare. And so far, working with Peter’s been great, but he doesn’t know—

“I would only take photos of the back,” Peter explains, calm and professional and somehow, slightly pleading.

Which, that helps, and he _wants_ to say yes, oddly enough, but—“The recording camera?”

Peter doesn’t look away from his face. “I could turn it so that it only records from the back. No footage whatsoever of you from the front.” The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches up. “Of course, if you’re not comfortable naked, or with me touching you intimately, I understand.”

Strangely enough, he thinks Peter actually _would_. He chews on his lower lip for a long moment as he thinks about it—caught between the urge to say “yes”, because he’ll probably end up naked for _Neckz ‘n Throats_ at some point, and at least with Peter it’s just the two of them, and he feels like he can _trust_ Peter, crazy as that seems—and saying “no” because the idea is terrifying.

In the end, his curiosity to see where this goes, where Peter takes him with rope and hands and camera, wins out. “Okay,” he whispers.

Peter grins, and then surges forward to wrap him in a hug. “Thank you for trusting me with this,” he murmurs, and Stiles suddenly feels a lot better about his decision.

There’s just one more thing. “Will you, um—are you going to, y’know.” Peter doesn’t help, leaning back with a curious smile, so Stiles eventually just looks up at the ceiling and spits it out. “My dick. Are you gonna touch it?”

Peter chuckles, but it sounds fond rather than mocking. “No, Stiles—I won’t touch your genitals. I could, if I were doing a different tie, but there’s absolutely no reason to touch you inappropriately.” He sounds firm, and Stiles tries not to feel perversely disappointed. “This shoot is for the magazine, and you’re a model. There’s no need to incorporate your genitals in the tie when that won’t be photographed.”

He nods, and stands on shaky legs. “The camera?”

Peter gets up and readjusts it, and Stiles takes the opportunity to shimmy out of his underwear and unbuttoned shirt. There’s no need to slap Peter in the face—metaphorically or otherwise—with his dick, which would happen if the photographer tried to help him strip down.

Peter returns, and nods, acknowledging his nudity but not making a big deal of it. He guides Stiles a few steps to the right, turning him as they go until they’re next to the bed and Stiles’s back is firmly toward the camera. “Ready, Stiles?”

Not really, but—“Go ahead.”

Peter nods, and then looks down to wind the rope around his midsection. It means there’s no chance he misses the way Stiles’s cock twitches at the feeling of the rope sliding across his skin and tightening in place. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, and Stiles can’t look at him, but nods anyway. “I mean it. It can happen—just a physical response to sensation.”

Stiles is pretty sure that’s only half of what’s happening here, but he appreciates it anyway. He stays silent as Peter moves around him before kneeling, and things don’t go hazy this time, not like before. Feeling the ropes slide into place as they criss-cross the sensitive skin of his butt and hips is tantalizing in a way the chest harnesses weren’t. Maybe it’s because this is bare skin, no protective cloth barrier between, or maybe it’s because he’s naked, or even because of where the rope is, but all he knows for sure is that the desire to have Peter stay close and touch him isn’t lessened any this time.

If anything, it’s worse, and he has to bite back a moan when the back of Peter’s hand brushes his balls as the rope is brought between his legs to the front. But all Peter says is, “If it’ll help, you can brace your hands on my shoulders.” focussing on the red ropes he’s using to decorate Stiles’s skin.

So he does, but it doesn’t exactly help, feeling the heat and muscles in the shoulders under his hands. He might be less likely to fall over, but now he’s tempted to grope the photographer who’s currently being _exceptionally_ polite about not mentioning his boner, despite it twitching and bobbing mere inches away from the poor guy’s face.

Stiles doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Peter finishes and moves away. Peter must see it on his face—or smell, can’t forget about those werewolf sniffers—and runs his hands across the tops of Stiles’s shoulders, smoothing upward to cup either side of his throat. “You’re alright, sweet thing,” he murmurs, and Stiles’s eyes slip closed as he leans into the touch.

Peter guides him onto the bed, settling him on his stomach and sweeping a hand up his spine. Stiles tries not to writhe when he steps away, fights the urge to rut against the textured stripes of the bedspread, but he can’t quite keep still, either. When Peter returns, camera on a strap around his neck, straddling him with a knee on either side of his hips, he fists the coverlet and hides his face, moaning.

The clicking of the camera that follows doesn’t help, and he turns his head to glare out of the corner of one eye, but that just prompts Peter to snap a few more shots. And then, the worst thing happens—Peter gets off the bed, and stops touching him.

Stiles maybe lets out a whine.

The hand that cards through his hair helps. “Easy, gorgeous, easy. You’re alright. Can you look at me?”

Stiles whimpers out a negative. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to make eye contact when he’s flayed open and desperate. But Peter’s hand in his hair doesn’t give him much of a choice—the insistent tugging raises his head, exposes his bitten lips and hazy eyes.

Peter’s wolf-eyes flash, just for a moment, and Stiles moans. Peter snaps a shot, and then lets the camera hang from its strap. “Okay, sweetheart. It’s okay, we’re done now. I can untie you.”

He doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be let go, but he nods anyway, and lets Peter move him and unwind the harness while they both continue to ignore the most persistent erection of Stiles’s life. Peter’s fingertips skate over the indentations of the ropes left over his hip, lighting up the nerves and sending _want_ coursing through him. He nearly whines when Peter takes his hand away. “Any numbness or tingling? Anything achy or sore?”

Stiles looks down at his dick, which is flushed dark red and wet at the tip. Peter’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Aside from that, of course.”

Stiles shakes his head. Peter nods. “Alright then. In that case, I’ll turn the camera off, and let you get dressed. Thank you for agreeing to this on such short notice, and for your excellent work. I’d like to apologize for my nephew’s behaviour, and assure you that it was a genuine pleasure to work with you. I’ll talk to Braeden about a bonus for you for this shoot—you’ve more than earned it.”

It feels like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Thanks.”

Peter nods one more time, and then gets up, turning off the recording camera, and starting to dismantle. He doesn’t look at Stiles while he awkwardly tries to wrangle his dick back into his skinny jeans, or while he collects his phone and shuts off the ambient noise app. Peter just quietly works at repacking the prop crate, re-coiling the rope, and dismantling the stage lights.

It’s polite and professional of him, and it feels inexplicably _wrong_ , that he’s not touching Stiles, not close enough _to_ touch. That he’s suddenly absent when all Stiles wants is that laser-focus back on him again.

But Peter was right—this is a job. And maybe he learned something about himself here, but that doesn’t mean this wasn’t a job, that he’s not expected to act like the professional model he is. So he swallows down all the needy noises could make and every word he could say to Peter—especially the extra-unprofessional ones he so badly _wants_ to say—and walks out of the studio with a murmured, “Bye.”

Peter doesn’t stop him.

***

It’s been a week since the shoot, and Peter can’t get the boy— _Stiles_ —out of his mind. He knows he crossed lines, and is grateful the model never went to Laura to lodge a complaint—which he knows, because his niece would never let a complaint about him slide. Even if it were a specious one, because she’s a troll. Not quite to Cora’s level, but they learned from the best.

But, troll or no, she takes her job seriously, so Peter has to assume that he’s safe enough for now.

It also means he’s been putting off selecting and editing photos from that shoot, and he’s procrastinated more than long enough. He’s already had a meeting with Braeden about Derek—who is being levied with a fine, which will come out of his next paycheque, in addition to being written up for breach of contract and sent to Laura in HR for a lecture on the importance of fulfilling his contractual obligations. And, after outlining the way Stiles rose to the occasion despite Peter’s obstacle course of a nephew, got her to sign off on the promised bonus. So despite the mixed feelings he knows will come up—he’s not looking forward to being presented with evidence of his lack of professionalism and the boundaries he overstepped without another soul on-set to call him on it—he buckles down and starts with the stills.

They’re breathtaking, and that’s not just his ego talking.

Somehow, Stiles manages to radiate not only a highly-appealing submissiveness in each photo, but a number of other emotions ranging from easy trust as he lounges, bound, in the velvet chair, to longing in his poses by the window, to debauchery and desperation in the shots where he’s in the hip harness on the bed. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen this much range from one model within a single shoot before, and despite the fact that his photography days are mostly behind him, he would leap at the chance to do another shoot with this beautifully expressive young man.

The raw shots are all good, so he sets them aside for now to see if there’s anything in the recorded footage. There probably will be, which is a bonus at this point, as there’ll be more than enough for the upcoming issue in the stills, but it never hurts to have exclusive extras for special editions, reprints, or social media. With that in mind, he hooks his camera up to his workstation, and pulls up the appropriate programs with every intention of skimming and fast-forwarding through the three hours of footage to a few specific spots he thinks will have something worth cleaning up and saving.

When the actual footage starts playing, however, he freezes and stares.

That can’t be right.

He drags the progress bar to the next section, and watches a few minutes. And then he does it again. And again. And again, because he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

He’d known during the shoot that Stiles was aroused, that the beautiful boy been enjoying the rope session, the same way he’d known that he’d overstepped professional boundaries in how he’d talked to and touched Stiles between ties. After going through the stills, the expressiveness of not just his face, but his entire body, was no surprise to Peter. Of course the video footage would reflect that. He’d fully expected it to.

He didn’t expect to see naked hunger—a deep, primal kind of _want_ —on his own face in the recording, never thought he’d be confronted with hard proof of Stiles leaning towards him like a sunflower towards the sun in every randomly-selected chunk of footage.

Peter loves rope, loves being a rigger. He’d thought his expression and body language would show that, and perhaps his fondness for the pretty model who fell into his lap. He knew Stiles’s shots would be raw and sensual, deeply emotive. He assumed he would be in the background of every shot, would fade like the chair and bed as Stiles stole the attention of the viewer. He would have been fine with that, would know how to crop and edit those shots for the summer issue.

He doesn’t know what to do with this.

For several hours, he goes through the footage, playing and fast-forwarding and rewinding as he tries to catch clean shots to add to the maybe pile. He tries to treat it like any other job, to ignore that he’s in this footage and these photos, does his level best to only see angles and lines, highlights and shadows, to weigh the benefits of colour or black-and-white for each. He struggles to block out the sense memories ( _the texture of the rope sliding across his palms as he winds it over smooth cotton and smoother skin, the ginger-chili scent of arousal steaming out of the boy’s pores_ ) as he uses Photoshop to manually retouch the odd detail here or there, and colour correct his irises, because the antiglare lens helps, means his face isn’t lost to lens flare, but the trade-off is the colour skew.

By the end of hour six, he admits defeat, slumping in his desk chair.

He’s a consummate professional, but part of _being_ a professional is knowing when he’s in over his head, so he closes the editing software, and opens his email program. The first missive is easy enough to draft.

_To:[vboyd@halepub.com](mailto:vboyd@halepub.com), [dmahealani@halepub.com](mailto:dmahealani@halepub.com)  
Subject: kink-themed shoot for summer issue_

_Danny, Boyd,_

_As you may have heard, the final shoot for our summer issue was met with a number of obstacles, and it seems there’s one more. I’d like to request your assistance, re: photo selection and layout. Danny, you’re our most senior visual editor after me, and Boyd, I know you’ve worked with this model—Stiles Stilinski—in the past. I’m hoping the both of you can lend a hand so that we don’t fall behind schedule._

_Please let me know as soon as possible._

_Thanks,_

  1. _Hale_



After sending, he opens it again, and starts drafting the second, much more difficult email.

_To:[b.b.bosslady@halepub.com](mailto:b.b.bosslady@halepub.com), [l.hale.hr@halepub.com](mailto:l.hale.hr@halepub.com)  
Subject: FW: kink-themed shoot for summer issue _

_As per company policy, I am writing to inform you of the fact that I am_

He swallows, wishing he had a drink. After, he promises himself. He will go home and get absolutely hammered after this.

_I am writing to inform you of the fact that I am professionally compromised in regards to a subordinate employee, one Stiles Stilinski. As such, I am in the process of turning over related work to Danny and Boyd (see below), and will schedule a meeting on the matter at your earliest possible convenience._

He hits send, closes the laptop, and hurries home.

***

The last thing he expects when he goes into work the next day—a little later than usual, because even with werewolf healing, hangovers are a bitch—is Braeden sitting in his office levelling her third-best glare at him.

Before he can speak, she says, “I hope you know you’re an idiot.”

He scowls, and very carefully does not crush his cup of coffee. He needs it. “I beg your pardon?”

Braeden waves her phone. “‘ _Emotionally compromised_ ’? Really? What does that even mean, Peter?”

He starts peeling out of his jacket, pretending nonchalance. “What do you think it means?”

Braeden snorts. “With you, that normally means you’re struggling not to gut someone you think deserves it. Sometimes it means you can’t work with the person and don’t want to try. But that can’t be the case here, because you rolled up into my office singing this kid’s praises and negotiated a bonus for him, so you tell me.”

Peter sighs, and gestures her out of his chair. Braeden stands, and he opens the laptop, logging in and pulling up the editing software from last night. He opens the recorded footage, and fast-forwards to the moment he finished tying the hip harness. He hits play, and watches Braeden’s face as she sees the way he touched and soothed Stiles, lets her see the naked want that flooded his face when the boy leaned into his hands.

“That kind of compromised,” he murmurs.

“Huh.” She’s a little nonplussed, but it doesn’t last long. “Okay. Was there anyone else on-set that can vouch for your behaviour during this shoot?”

Peter grimaces. “No.”

“Did the model file a complaint?”

“Also no.”

Braeden nods. “Okay, so not great, but not terrible, yet. Did you touch him sexually during the course of the shoot?”

“No,” Peter almost growls, because he may have overstepped, but he most definitely did not go that far.

Braeden nods again, just once, like she expected that answer. “Did you make any sexually inappropriate comments during the shoot, or proposition him?”

And that, that one Peter has to think about. “I know I didn’t proposition him,” he says slowly. “But I can’t say for sure that all my remarks were appropriate.”

Braeden hums, looking away from him to stare at the video still playing on his laptop. “I don’t see anything here that concerns me, but you haven’t made any attempts to contact him since, have you?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, because her tone is all wrong for what she’s asking. She doesn’t sound like a boss asking a high-level employee a routine question in a harassment case, she sounds like—“No, of course not.”

“You should.”

He thought she was going to go there, and yet, he’s still surprised. He rubs his eyes tiredly. “And say what, exactly?”

She gives him a Mona Lisa smile, secretive and full of badly-hidden glee. “Watch the footage again,” she says, in the most random non-sequitur he’s ever heard from her while they’re both sober. “The answer is right here.”

***

Danny and Boyd are going over the footage, and really, Peter shouldn’t even _be_ here, but he can’t bring himself to leave, either. The both of them agree that this shoot is easily going to be the highlight of the summer issue, but are having a substantially easier time narrowing down the selection. Really, all he’s doing is lurking by the doorway, but there’s nothing else he needs to be doing this afternoon, so he’ll lurk all he wants, thanks.

He’s so engrossed in watching Boyd and Danny work on the large monitor that Laura’s murmured, “You should call him,” startles him a little.

Peter looks to his left, where his niece is leaning in the doorway. “I thought I was trying to avoid a sexual harassment complaint.”

She shrugs. “You’re not going to get slapped with one—rumour has it the kid really enjoyed working with you. Like, _really_ enjoyed.”

Peter snorts, and refuses to give into the ridiculous bloom of hope trying to strangle his higher brain function like a weed. “As flattering as it is to be someone’s new favourite jerk-off fantasy at my age, providing more fodder isn’t going to fit into my busy calendar.”

Laura sighs like she’s already exhausted of him. “Uncle Peter, look at your face in these shots. Hell, look at _his_. That kind of chemistry deserves a shot.” She pauses, and the look she shoots him is soft enough to make his teeth itch. “You deserve to be happy, you know.”

And then the little shit-disturber walks away before he can figure out what to say to that.

Peter slinks back to his office, and works on things unrelated to Stiles, but Laura’s implied blessing and Braeden’s knowing smile gnaw at him all afternoon. Eventually, he gives up trying to work entirely, and rests his face in his hands, because apparently he needs to make a decision about this. After a few deep breaths, he sits back, and looks up at the ceiling.

He hasn’t made any attempt to contact Stiles, nor did he check in with the model after the shoot—a thing he would normally have done, given the nature of what they were doing. He was aiming for the level of professionalism he usually performs with ease, but which was anything _but_ easy with Stiles. Objectively, he wasn’t heinously out of line, even if he did put a toe across the line called “industry standards”. That being said, he clearly didn’t violate Stiles’s boundaries, or he’s sure he would’ve heard about it by now, given that he did follow protocol and inform both Braeden and Laura. Laura would’ve done due diligence, and sent a polite inquiry, especially given that she knows him. It would’ve been as much for his sake as Stiles’s.

So the bottom line is, he breached professional standards, but not ethical ones, and Stiles isn’t upset about it. The question now is what to do moving forward.

Option one: ignore it until it goes away, and refuse to work with the boy again. It’s a tad dramatic, but probably a reasonable course of action, and Peter would rather eat his own toenails before going through with it. Stiles is a joy to work with. He’s not turning down a repeat if the opportunity falls in his lap.

Option two: call Stiles, and offer an apology, if needed. Also a fairly reasonable, mature course of action, and one Peter is absolutely not going to take, because he refuses to give apologies he doesn’t mean unless there’s a judge or money involved.

Option three: continue as usual. Don’t contact Stiles, don’t apologize, and hope another opportunity to work with him comes up. It’s neat and simple, requires the least amount of effort on his part, and while Braeden and Laura might have differing opinions, he wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.

It’s absolutely what he should do, but his guts clench painfully at the thought. Which just leaves option four: fuck professionalism, and call the bewitching little menace and ask him out.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. The reasons he shouldn’t tumble over each other in his brain, jumbling in their rush to all be heard at once. ( _Braeden will be smug, it might hurt the magazine, it could make work difficult, they’d have to register their relationship with Laura in HR, it might jeopardize Stiles’s modelling career, he might not_ —)

But knowing he shouldn’t hasn’t ever stopped Peter before, so he looks up Stiles’s number, and calls from his cell phone. Personal calls shouldn’t be made on the company line. Because principles, or something, but mainly because Danny was a hacker in his youth, and Peter doesn’t trust Laura not to bribe him to pull up a recording of the call.

Before he’s really figured out what to say, Stiles picks up. “Hello?”

Time to fly by the seat of his expertly-tailored pants. “Hi there. It’s Peter Hale calling.”

“Oh! Hey man,” Stiles replies warmly. “What’s up? Do I need to come back in for re-shoots?”

Peter chuckles at how eager he sounds. “No, sweet boy, you spoiled us, gave us lots to work with. This isn’t actually a business call.”

“Oh really?” Stiles sounds intrigued, and a little gleeful. It’s why Peter likes him.

“Mm. I was,” _hoping-praying-terrified-insane_ , “wondering if you’d go out with me?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Then, “Like, on a date?”

Christ, this boy. “Yes, Stiles. On a date.”

“Huh.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Yes, but on one condition.”

Peter’s heart starts dancing a samba, but he keeps his voice even. “And what’s that?”

“When you put me in ropes again—and fuck, please tell me you’re gonna put me in rope again—”

“—Oh, I will,” Peter murmurs.

“—I want you to touch me. The way you didn’t at the shoot.”

And oh, but this beautiful, perfect boy is everything he could’ve asked for. Peter drops his voice into a husky purr. “You want me to make you come, sweetheart? Wrap my lips around you and swallow so you don’t make a mess of my ropes?”

There’s a high-pitched, needy sound. “Yes.”

And Peter can’t help but chuckle. “It would be my pleasure, sweetheart.”

“Okay, so—pick me up at seven, and we can go get dinner?”

“It’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang with me on [Tumblr](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Edit: There is now gorgeous fanart to go with this, created by Shey! Link is below, go click and leave it some love!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Professional Bounds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327381) by [Shey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey)




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